Grace Pasco

Choice Gains

Patience, n. a minor form of despair, disguised as a virtue. -Ambrose Bierce

By the water, a bird is caught.Sharpened claws are cloaked with thick woolen mittens.The owner resists the urge to scratch offThe artificial warmers, since hunger,Suppressed, provides heat enough.Rough knots in the lower stomach betrayAnd reveal the pouncing need to devour.Hours pass. The claws start to retract.Lips start to purse. The wrists are relaxedAnd the gaze? Heavy at the lids.The prey. The bird. The mealIs set free at the price of the bigger creature's will​ of won't kill.Big fish come closer to the surface.Only then is resistance released.The feed provides heat enough.The need to devour is at once realized.Actualized.Minutes pass. The claws are full of meat.The mouth makes chomping motions.Wrists are intent to dine.And the gaze?Heavy at the lids–Asleep.​

Bubble Boy

I see him packing up without me,Getting ready to slip out the house while I sleep.He’ll be careful so the locks won’t click too loudOr the floors creak too much.He is worried that the car shouldSurreptitiously tell me of his departure,Which would rupture the bubble he’s blowing,The one he’ll ride like the Good Witch of the North.Like the one in Wizard of Oz.So I foldAnd crisscross my arms over my chestAnd act according to plan.Awake, I sleep.Then, click go the locks andCreak goes the floor.And the car? Is a narc.I look to the gusts of wind and prayThat his bubble only bursts when he is readyTo land with hands open,Unclenched and at peace.​

Nine O'Clock on a Saturday

My piano manWith big hands Is patient.

He touches my skinThe way he plays his fifty-two keys— Gently and just right. We make music. We crescendo.Our pieces have codas and encores andWe make our own remixes.

Neither of us minds being benched becauseWe have a good view of an ivory coast.

Our fingertips tap on With spines aligned. Anchored. Our minds are on chords That keep in time with a four-four count.

Our sounds are steady And make sense, Intense at times when we hit Ninty-five decibels,

Incredible!

Then, the decrescendo,The cool down with the pedal off– Cue the second run through to the end zone-

As I sing the melody, we both keep rhythmAs we make peace from our sturdy bench,

Across a 52-key ivory coast. ​

I Go Toward the Well

​I walk to the wellTo see how much water can fillMy eager bucket.The water does not have to quench thirst,For I but come to observe the way liquid playsIn the solid wood.

But sometimes,I run to the well--

To splash fresh water onto my face.With it, my tears and sweat blend togetherAnd I beseech relief to meet me.The water reflects to me a steadinessThat was not allowed to me byDistractions and a raced pace.

I look into the designated hole on the groundAnd see the sky above,Bright and dancing.And darkness ceases to be a thing of fear.Instead, it’s a theatre for potentialWithin the well toward which I run.

Today, I sit by the well.And watch as strangers, too,Draw their bucketfuls.I am not ready yet to look againInto the depths of the designated hole on the ground,So I will waitUntil I have no choice but to pick up my wooden retrieverAnd let it fall and scoop upWhat it will.

What "Apart" Meant

We rented the room at the end of the hallway On D Building’s silent Third floor,With odd-numbered rooms on the rightAnd even-numbered rooms to the left. Our neighbor’s door Was marked with red paint. Or was it marker? With a hexagonal wooden ornament and cased-in mirror.The street we chose was hidden awayFrom the loud krump of the city.Our building had a forcefield temperature settingOf at least 70 degrees.

We opened an eggshell-coated entrance, And saw the sunlight shining through the edges of thick, heavy, cream-colored curtains.There was a queen-sized bed, walking space, and big, white dressers with mirrors. There was a painting of a white lily mounted over the headboard. And the best part: Opaque, glazed, glass doors that could meet together in the middle to close And could glide to the sides of the room if we so chose to open them.

My then-roommate, ex-lover, past-friend, now-stranger Would cook in our sun-lit kitchen. He built a nest in the balcony for birds hiding from the rain, “Since,” he said, “the trees outside do not have sturdy enough branches.” He was a live-in Saint Francis of Assisi, An in-house Snow White.

Our apartment can be found at the corner of where the motorcycles were parked, or are parked. As I visit the details of our home in Ramkhamhaeng 26, I remember:

Being “apart” meant that we would no longer be roommates, no longer lovers, no longer friends. My now imaginary friend lives in another space, with another woman, where he cooks In another kitchen, and cares for another bird, in another nest, in the present tense.

Beware of Blueberries

My dentist introduced me asthe “girl who does not floss enough”to his patient with hazel green eyes.Before I could open my mouth to let out a “Hello,”I felt as though my first impression was already smattered with plaque.Hazel Green Eyes and Iwere about eighteen inches away from each other,which is right around how much stringof wax filament is suggestedto properly reach the places bristled brushes won’t.He was then introduced asthe “boy with weaker enamel than the average human.”We smiled and our teeth opened the doors of our mouthsto see just who this dental-degree holder was talking about.I came to the rescue of the awkward divulgement and said,“I can’t tell that you have weaker enamel than the average human.”He replied, “I can tell that you had blueberries for breakfast.”

Someone Else

Sometimes, I,I lie awake and think of a sturdy someone's pectoral musclesAs my pillow, whichAre now someone else's pillow.I reach for my rectangular squishable object of comfortAnd lay my head like so.I then imagine his breathOver my head andThe rise and fall of his chestAs I sink into a meditation,Sufficient with its soporific effects.And try not to think about the sex that I'm not having.That someone else is having.So I reach for a sixteen-ounce glass of cold waterAnd take a forty-five-minute shower.And if that doesn't work, I try not to open online messengersTo send a meagre text.Because he's probably going to respond to the oneThat I'm not sending.That someone else is sending.It's a happy ending, reallyFor all of us involved,But I still get hit with"I-miss-you" spells at night andSometimes in the morning,Or is it just because I need to be pressing some kind ofReset button.Not like it's new or nothin'They didn't happen overnightAll of a sudden.Besides,We've had plenty of spaceAnd months have passed.We have an ocean and a continent between usSo if that's not enoughWhat is this heart-string unsnipped from hisExistence which might as well be in another planet.Can't you tell I didn't plan this?But it is 2am. Last time I checkedIt was ten to two. I've got work in the morningAnd for a while, I forgot how to pray,So again, I then,I then imagine his breathOver my head,The rise and fall of his chestAs I sink into a meditation,Sufficient with its soporific effects.​​